


B Vitamins

by Ladycat



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Dom/sub, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Porn, Prostitution, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An original work that is basically nameless, faceless characters there because I wanted to write porn. A lot of porn. That's pretty much it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B Vitamins

Like the way he just throws her down, ignoring the whoosh of air forced too fast from her lungs, breasts jiggling so that her nipples swim in his vision. He wants to lean down and suck on them, bite them red and swollen, but he's got other things in mind first. So he moves her, forcing her body to slide painfully over the glossy top of the table, so that her pussy is perfectly placed on the edge and, good girl that she is, already her legs are going back exposing herself for whatever he wishes.

He wishes a lot.

Other men would just fuck, because that's their driving need. Cocks are demanding things, although their requirements are fairly simple -- warm, wet, and tight. That's all they need, but that's not all _he_ needs, oh no. He smiles are her, slow and long with his teeth bright, just to make her swallow, eyes lined with blue widening in worry. He needs something very different.

Beside the girl is a stack of papers, things that have to be taken care of before he can play. The words swim in front of his eyes, black beetles on a white desert, but they make a good prop so he starts rifling through them, not caring that the awkward use of his left hand destroys the neatness of the pile.

Not the point.

The girl is still worried, frightened, her pussy glistening and swollen because she likes feeling that fear as much as he likes giving it. She jerks, too surprised to make a noise, when he slides two fingers inside of her. No prep, no waiting, just fucking them inside her while his thumb finds her clit and begins teasing it, dragging the pad lightly over it before grinding it hard against the pubic bone beneath, before returning to those light, teasing touches while pointer and index finger never stop moving inside of her.

She's sweating, rocking back and forth on the counter so that her body squeaks. It's humiliating, but then, most sex noises are. Most _sex_ is, but that never stops him. He loses himself to it, the way bitter musk of her body rises up until he almost gags on it, the choked gasps as pleasure twines together with pain, an unbreakable mixture she cannot do without, the sight of her, limp and breathless, head half-falling off the counter, body a toy for him to use or discard as he wills.

The door opens, bell gangling merrily, and he doesn't stop. Just adds a third finger, thinking about a fourth, enjoying the flush he sees from the corner of his eye. She knows what she looks like, spread out and taken in the crassest of manners, her breasts and cunt on display, muscles sleek under sun-bronzed skin, and for every iota of hate, there's a corresponding one of purest lust.

"Can I help you?" he asks, because it's half the pleasure, working her to a sobbing, gasping orgasm she'll never reach without permission, while he focuses on things obviously more important than the girl he fingers.

Cracked lips are licked, the newest figure staring blankly as a particularly hard jab to her inner walls has the girl crying out sharp and ringing. "Uh," he says. He's flushed, sunset pink over alabaster beaches, and his pants tent to unwilling heights. He can't look away, doesn't want to, because he doesn't want him to. The audience makes it better for her, makes it better for _him_ , knowing that now random strangers -- even if he isn't, even if can't ever be -- witness her desperate debauchery.

"Come here," he says, calm and cool and collected, all the things the whimpering girl he fucks isn't, all the things this newest gentleman wishes he was and isn't. The counter is opaque beneath the glass, protecting him from exposure, and the other man gives a thin, choked groan when he crawls underneath the divide, remaining on his knees. "Do you want that? I think you do. I think you're as much of a whore as she is, a desperate little slut who needs to know her place."

The gentleman has soft features, for all the angles to his body look diamond-filed, eyes bright and vivid against the dark brows overhanging them, a soft mouth made for cock and pussy, for being pink and swollen and eager and come-covered as they beg for more. "I -- " he says. There's no air in his lungs, no wet on his throat, and the word cracks like pavement baked in the sun. "I -- "

"Take off your clothes." There should be more here, more words and convincing arguments, flowering around him the way the girl flowers around his unceasing fingers, her sounds turning broken and desperate as she's driven to the edge of her endurance. She's come once, already, shuddering tight and rhythmic and paltry as her body isn't given a chance to enjoy, instead immediately driven on. He enjoys convincing, enjoys the seduction of the unwilling mind, the body that already aches for his touch, but he's too wound to bother.

It's also unnecessary as trembling fingers, short and blunt-tipped, stained with nicotine, start fumbling at jacket and shirt, boots and pants and socks. They fall away, leaving a man who looks boyish, innocent and smooth for all he too is ready, rosy-tipped cock brushing against the cut swells of his belly.

He wants to lick it, to torment him the way he torments her, eyes rolled back as blood pools in her head, but instead he says, "Good boy. Which will it be? Mouth or cunt?"

The man whimpers, falsetto and sweet against the length of his cock. It's always fun to give them choices, dangling options before their greedy, bodies, offering things they know they will never decide. The choices were made long before, and he takes their acquiescence as greedily as he pushes fingers and cock inside their desperate, needy cunts.

"Oh, wait," he says, cruelly tormenting a clit already swollen and sensitive just to see the girl arch and give herself a little more fully, pain in every tremble of her body. "I don't care. Take me out and suck me off."

The man doesn't hesitate, scrambling forward on his knees, shaking hands deft and sure despite the constant quiver. He's removed, the air too cool against his own sensitivity and for a half-second he wants to rail, wants to curse the cruelty that's allowed that to pass -- and then he's buried in warmth, the head of his cock battering against muscles that struggle before yielding, allowing him entry. The man gags, inhaling frantic gasps of air, but he doesn't care, doesn't hesitate as he fucks almost blindly. It's up to the man to make sure he's in position, not him to care about aim, and oh, the man does. Tears stream down his cheeks, spit down his chin, and soon he makes the same gasping, desperate noises the girl makes, each of them taken and used past endurance.

He's in haven.

His hand is growing tired, though, so eventually he pulls out of her pussy -- she _cries_ , broken sobs like shattered glass -- and he rolls his eyes in disgust. Stepping back and out of his newest toy's mouth, he smacks the man across it, just to make red lips turn plum, anxious expression slip back into mindless, obedient fear. "Eat her out," he orders.

The man stumbles into position, crying out when his balls are kicked, his cock bruised and battered until he realizes he's meant to be standing. It's a painfully awkward position, bent so that his ass is raised, pert and full and ready, his mouth already occupied with her sopping pussy.

"Isn't that a picture," he murmurs, slapping his ass just because the white of it mocks him with colorless potential. He smacks until the man is shouting into the girl's cunt, she in turn riding those screams into a frenzy of want. "Very pretty."

His thumb glistens from her want, fingers leaving shiny residue on swollen skin, and he doesn't bother with preliminaries -- better be done, have to be done -- and he slides in slick and easy and fast. Muscles contract in denial, attempting to push instead of spread, and it's good, it's so fucking good to be where a cock always wants to be, balls deep in something that cannot fight back, cannot say no, and learns to accept the battering as what it's owed, what it is due.

What _he_ is due.

There's nothing more horrible than the sound of a man screaming, lacking the damsel qualities of a woman in the same position, and he laughs as the screams are what get her off a third time, wails of pain that transmute through her pussy into pleasure. It's a perfect cycle, the perfect emblem of what he is and what he makes them into, so he fucks with long, powerful strokes that send her squeaking across the glass, his free-swaying cock brushing against nothing at all.

Perfect perfect perfect.

He fucks hard and quick, knowing that a toy will never say no, never want to mean it no matter how much it might hurt. And the toy does, noises dropping off to slurping snuffles as he continues to minister to a pussy that can no longer bear the touch, gripping the counter white knuckled so not to go headfirst into the edge, his entire body one long instrument to be used and abused and fucked.

Quick jabs, harsh saws of need, and he smiles almost indulgently down at the back that cramps and contracts with every new thrust. He pets it, laughing when the trembling increases because any touch from him is double-edged, before sliding past a muscle that knots when he brushes it, finding a cock that sways painfully needy and the sac underneath, falling so easily into his palm, just waiting to be touched and caressed, tugged and squeezed until tears mix with the juices staining his face.

God, he loves what he does. Every second of burning pain in his back and thighs is worth it, a softened hush against the roar of doing what he wants as he wants it, whatever that might be, whatever tools he might need for the job.

It's a stretch but he manages, across his body to hers, helpfully half-raised so that he can find her nipples, tight and raisened hard and needy, perfect for tugging and squeezing as he fucks. The rhythms are instinctive, a rocking circle of his pleasure and their pain, bouncing off the walls he's created just for this, echoed reverberations making his enjoyment that much better.

"Finish her," he grunts, still working her tits, squeezing them because as much as his dick loves warmth and wet and tightness, his hands love the warm, bouncing swell of something so fragile, so sensitive, pain and pleasure so closely sifted together that she can't possibly tell which is better, her squirms agony and need both. "Now."

His toy moans, nosing deeper into her cunt, sliding two fingers where he had been before, twisting and probing until he finds what _he_ has never once looked for, pressing down hard while he takes her clit between his teeth and _bites._

She wails into semi-consciousness, a limp, sodden disaster on counters that will need to be disinfected. It's her job to clean, though, so he isn't worried, too busy gripping bony hips and fucking for all he's worth, straight and unrelenting until the man below him is a wailing, sobbing mess, same as the girl was before, arms trembling as he fights to stay upright, reddened ass perfectly tilted, and while he struggles, _his_ mind finally goes blank, numb and empty as his body follows suit.

He topples into his toy, crushing him against the counter. The girl scrambles to provide some kind of purchase but he bats her hands away, impatiently pushing her towards the floor. The man is shaking, his own cock hard enough that it has to be painful, has to be agony, blue-balls incarnate and he works his hips, jerking his softening cock into his toy's pussy just to make the connected cock rub painfully against glass and plasterboard.

"Ready?" he asks and laughs because ready or not, here he comes. A tight squeeze, a fast jack up and down once, and his toy is screaming again, head tossed back to his shoulder as he wails his release, more pain than pleasure, more heartache than solace, crying brokenly because he doesn't want his pets to feel pleasure, only to empty them so that in a little while, they'll desperately need to be played with again.

Ever-renewable toys and all for the price of their own pain and humiliation.

Sated for the moment, he pulls free and collapses back into the waiting chair. His pets whimper as they right themselves, mouths busy as they clean up their own messes before cuddling against his knees like the animals he's made them want to be, voiceless creatures that live for his comfort, his need that keeps them going. And as both of them bend their mouths to his cock, cleaning him for round two, should he so desire it, he strokes their heads and coos at them, telling them what pretty sluts they are, what good bitches for his fingers and cock, and if they're very good and do an excellent job, he'll take them home to where the beds and manacles live and use the other toys -- the inanimate ones -- on them.

He doesn't bother listening for their affirmative moans. He knows what their answer will be, knows they crave him as much as they crave them.

After all, if they didn't, they wouldn't be there.


End file.
